Bart Keene's Hunting Days: or, The Darewell Chums in a Winter Camp

“No, I want something moving, Clayton,” replied Bart. “Start off the birds and beasts.”

These were small images of birds and squirrels that moved around on a sort of endless chain arrangement. Clayton, the man in charge of the gallery, set the machinery in motion, and the painted effigies began to go around. Bart raised the rifle – a repeater – to his shoulder, took quick aim, and fired. A bird was knocked over, then a squirrel went down, and, in rapid succession he repeated this until he had fifteen hits to his credit, out of a possible sixteen.

“Fine!” cried Ned, enviously.

“I should have had ’em all,” announced Bart with a shake of his head. “Here, some of you fellows try.”

They did, but could not do nearly as good as had Bart. Then Bart contented himself with making bullseyes at a stationary target, though Frank and Ned made another effort to equal Bart’s record with the moving objects. Frank came the nearest with ten.

“Now I’ll try for sixteen out of sixteen,” announced Bart, as Clayton reloaded the weapon for him.

By this time a crowd had gathered in the gallery, which, being a new amusement resort in town, was quite an attraction. Bart paid no attention to the spectators grouped back of him, but, with the coolness a veteran shot might envy, he began.

Report after report rang out, and at each burst of flame and puff of smoke a bird or a squirrel toppled over, until fifteen straight had gone down.

“That’s the stuff!” cried one man, enthusiastically, as Bart was about to make his last shot.

“Hush!” cautioned Clayton, but Bart did not mind. He fired his last bullet, and knocked over his sixteenth target, only he did not hit it as squarely as he had the others.

“That’s very good shooting, my lad,” remarked a man who had stood near Bart’s elbow. “Very good indeed. Would you like to try your skill with me; on a little wager?”

“I never bet,” answered Bart, coolly, as he tried to get a glimpse of the man’s face. But the latter wore a slouch hat, which was pulled well down over his eyes, shading his features.

“Oh, I don’t mean a bet,” was the quick answer. “I only meant that the loser would pay the bill for cartridges,” and he laughed, not unpleasantly. As Bart had often done this with his chums, and other lads in town, he had no objection to it, and the arrangement was made.

“What shall it be, sixteen straight?” asked the stranger, as he carefully selected a gun.

“Double it if you like,” replied Bart, who was just warming up to his work.

“Ah, you’re game, I see,” was the laughing comment. “Well, I’m willing. Will you go first?”

“I’ll shoot sixteen shots, then you can do the same, then I’ll take sixteen more, and you can finish,” answered Bart, and this arrangement was made.

By this time word had gotten around that some remarkable shooting was going on in the gallery, and it was packed almost to the doors. Bart and the stranger had difficulty in getting room to aim properly.

Bart started off, and in rapid succession made sixteen straight targets of the moving objects. There was a cheer, and it was repeated when his rival duplicated the lad’s performance. Bart was not exactly annoyed, but he felt that his reputation was at stake. He was easily accounted the best shot in Darewell, but now it seemed likely that he would have to share the honors with this stranger. Bart felt himself wishing that the man would show his face, but the soft hat remained pulled down well over the fellow’s eyes.

Bart began on his second round, and all went well until the last shot. Then, in some unaccountable manner, he missed it clean. Still, his performance was a fine one.

The stranger said nothing as he took his place. Slowly and confidently he pulled the trigger, and worked the lever that ejected the discharged shell, and pumped a new bullet into place. For fourteen shots he never made a miss. Then, on the fifteenth of the second round he made a blank by a narrow margin. A start of annoyance betrayed itself. At best he could but tie Bart. Once more the gun sent out flame and smoke.

“Missed!” called out Clayton, quickly, as he looked at the target.

Bart had won. The stranger paused a moment, as if to make sure that he had lost, and then, throwing down on the counter the price for his shots and Bart’s, he turned to leave the place. Several stared at him, for it seemed as if he should have said something, or congratulated his rival, but he did not. He pushed his way through the press of men and boys, and reached the outer door.

Then, by some accident, a man brushed against him, and the stranger’s hat came off. Bart, who was looking at him, could not repress an exclamation of astonishment.

“What’s the matter?” asked Clayton.

“Nothing – nothing,” murmured Bart, quickly.

“Come on, show us some fancy shooting,” urged Sandy Merton, who at one time had been an enemy of the chums, but who was now on friendly terms with them.

“No – I can’t – now,” answered Bart, a bit shortly. “Come on, fellows,” he called to Ned, Frank and Fenn. They followed him, wondering at his haste. Bart was making his way rapidly to the door. Once outside he gazed up and down the street. It was deserted, and lay cold and silent under the moon.

“He’s gone!” exclaimed Bart, in disappointed tones.

“Who?” inquired Ned.

“That man – the man I shot against.”

“Well, what difference does that make? Did you want another contest? You beat him.”

“I know it,” spoke Bart quietly. “But do you know who he was?”

“No,” answered Frank and Fenn together.

“He was the man we saw getting into the school the night Mrs. Long’s diamond bracelet was taken!” answered Bart. “That’s the man who can prove that we are innocent – that’s the thief! Come on, let’s see if we can catch him!” and Bart started off on a run.

CHAPTER V

AN INITIATION

Hardly appreciating Bart’s explanation, his chums set off after him. Down the moonlit street they sped, their footsteps ringing out on the frosty night. But though they could not have been far behind the man who had engaged in the shooting contest with Bart, they caught no glimpse of him.

“I guess it’s no use,” remarked the leader, pulling up as he peered down a deserted alley. “He’s given us the slip.”

“Do you really think it was the same man?” asked Fenn.

“Sure. Didn’t I have a good look at his face?”

“Yes, I know you did this time, but we didn’t have at the school the night we were hiding in the shadow. Are you sure it’s the same man?”

“Of course. I had a good look at him just as he was entering the front door of the school. The moon was as bright as it is to-night, and he had his hat pushed back. Oh, it’s the same fellow all right. Besides, didn’t he run when he found out his face had been seen? I thought there was something suspicious about him when I was shooting against him, but I couldn’t tell what it was. However, he realized that we were after him.”

“I don’t see how that can be,” spoke Frank. “He doesn’t know we’re the fellows who are accused of taking the bracelet, for he is a stranger in town. And, anyway, he doesn’t know that we saw him entering the school – that is providing it’s the same man, Bart.”

“Oh, it’s the same man all right, and I wouldn’t be surprised but that he was suspicious of us. Else why did he hurry away so quickly? I wish we could have caught him.”

“Maybe we’d better notify the police,” suggested Ned.

“No,” declared Bart. “We’ve gotten along so far without their help, and we’ll work this out alone. Besides, the minute we notify the police we’ll have to explain why we didn’t tell about the man before, and that won’t do. No, we’ll keep mum. Let’s look a little farther.”

They continued on down the main street, with short excursions into alleys and side thoroughfares, but all to no purpose. No trace of the man was to be seen, and they returned home tired from their run, and somewhat discouraged.

The chums said nothing to their folks of their experience at the gallery, though Bart’s fame as a shot spread among his school companions, and there was some speculation as to who the stranger might have been.

“Whoever he was, he’s almost as good a shot as you are, Bart,” remarked Sandy Merton. “You ought to arrange for a return match with him.”

“Perhaps I would – if I could find him,” agreed Bart.

“That’s so he did go out rather suddenly,” went on Sandy. “Do you know who he was?”

“No, I wish I did,” murmured Bart, and then he changed the subject, fearing Sandy might ask leading questions.

The police had practically given up looking for the diamond bracelet, and Professor Long made no further references to it, though it was easy to see by his manner that he had not forgotten it. An undefinable air of suspicion hung over the four chums, though Fenn, from the fact that he had not entered the school, was, more or less, exempt. But he would not have it so.

“No,” Stumpy said, “if one of us is guilty we all are – only, as a matter of fact, none of us is. We’ll find that bracelet yet, and the missing turtle, too. If not this fall or winter, we will this spring. I know a new swamp where lots of turtles are, and we’ll have a try at that some day,” he told his chums.

Meanwhile matters at school continued to fill most of the time of the chums. The Darewell institution was a large one, and, of late, a number of secret societies had been formed among the junior and senior students. Sandy Merton was president of one of the junior organizations, known as the “Shamma Shig,” in comic reference to some of the college Greek letter fraternities.

“Why don’t you fellows join our society?” Sandy asked Bart and his chums, one day.

“I’m afraid we’d be ballotted against, and it would spoil our good records,” answered Fenn.

“Get out!” exclaimed Sandy, good-naturedly. “Come on, let me propose your names. We want a bigger membership, and I can guarantee that you’ll get through all right.”

“What about the initiation?” asked Frank. “Some we’ve been through have been pretty stiff.”

“Well, we don’t claim to have the easiest rites in the school, but they’re not so fierce,” replied the president proudly. “I can tip the fellows off, and we can make an exception in your cases, if you like, only – ”

“No, you don’t!” exclaimed Bart, quickly. “We’ll take all that’s coming to us – that is if we join. We’ll think about it.”

The chums talked matters over among themselves that night, and came to the conclusion that it would be a good plan to join the “Shamma Shigs.”

“All right, then, we’ll do it,” concluded Bart. “I’ll let Sandy know, and he can get the goat ready for us to ride.”

The initiation took place three days later, in the afternoon, and was held before a “crowded house” in the barn owned by Sandy’s uncle.

“Here are four worthy and gentle knights, who seek admission to our ranks,” announced Sandy, who was disguised with a sheet, all splashed over with red paint, to represent blood. He had a hickory nut in his mouth, to make his voice sound deep and hoarse, and was supported on either side by one lad in a purple sheet, and another one in yellow, the trio forming the “Mystic Three.”

Bart, Fenn and the others were put through some strenuous exercises, including the riding of a “goat” which was a saw-horse, with knots and bumps of wood nailed here and there on it, to represent bones. They were dipped into the rain-water barrel by means of a rope and pulley, and they were cast from “the terrible height into the awful chasm,” which ordeal consisted merely in being pushed down a space of about three feet, upon some hay, but being blindfolded was supposed to make up for the difference.

Then they had to climb a steep “mountain” which was an old horse tread-mill, geared up unusually high, and finally had to “drink the terrible cup,” which was supposed to be some horrible mixture, but which was really only molasses, ginger and water.

“Now for the final test,” proposed Sandy, to the four. “Are ye ready for the last act, or are ye timid and do ye shrink back from the terrible danger that confronts ye? If so, speak, an’ ye shall be allowed to depart in peace. But, if ye would brave the awful dangers and gloom of the bottomless pit, say the word, an’ then shall ye be true knights of the Shamma Shigs.”

“Go ahead, we’re ready,” replied Bart, irreverently.

“Let her flicker,” added Ned.

“’Tis well – blindfold them,” ordered Sandy, giving his red-spotted robe a shake.

“What, again?” asked Frank.

Sandy did not answer, but thick bandages were put over the eyes of the candidates. Then from sounds that took place in the barn they knew that a horse was being hitched up.

“We’re going to have a ride,” observed Fenn.

“Quiet, Stumpy,” cautioned Bart, in a whisper. “Keep still, and let’s see if we can catch on to what they’re doing.”

A little later their hands and feet were bound, and the candidates were put into a large wagon, and the drive began. It lasted for some time, and, try as they did, Bart and his chums could not imagine in which direction they were being taken. But, as they were familiar with the country for several miles in any point of the compass from Darewell, they were not worried.

“Halt!” Sandy finally ordered, and the creaking, jolting wagon came to a stop.

“Ye have one more chance, candidates,” went on the president, as he touched the foreheads of the four with something cold and clammy – a hand, from the feel of it, but it was only a rubber glove, filled with cracked ice. “One more chance ere ye dare the dangers of the bottomless pit,” went on Sandy. “Wilt withdraw?”

“Naw, let her go,” replied Fenn nonchalantly.

“’Tis well. The bottomless pit awaits ye,” threatened Sandy, and then, one at a time, the four were carefully lowered over the side of the wagon, down into some depths, as they supposed, but in reality only a short distance, so strangely are distances rendered when one is blindfolded.

“Ye are now in the pit, whence there is no escape,” went on Sandy, “but, if ye are true knights, and no craven cowards ye will come to no harm. In one hour’s time we shall release ye. Bide here until we return.”

His voice sounded faint and far away, but it was only because he was speaking into a pasteboard box he had brought along for that purpose. Then the sound of the wagon departing was heard, and the four chums were left, sitting they knew not where, with their hands and feet tied, and their eyes bandaged.

CHAPTER VI

AN UNEXPECTED MEETING

“Well,” remarked Fenn, after a somewhat long pause, “I don’t know how you fellows feel about it, but I think they’ve rather put it all over us; eh Bart?”

“Somewhat,” admitted the leader of the Darewell Chums. “But it isn’t so bad as I expected. I wonder where we are, anyhow?”

“Might be ten miles away,” observed Frank.

“I’ll wager we’re not more than half a mile from home,” came from Ned. “They drove roundabout to fool us.”

“That’s what I think,” remarked Bart. “Anyhow we’ve got to stay here an hour, and I don’t much fancy it, either. But since we’ve gone this far we might as well go the whole distance, I suppose. It’s a good thing it’s comparatively warm, or it wouldn’t be any fun staying here. Where are we, anyhow.”

“I’m going to find out!” declared Fenn suddenly.

“How, Stumpy?” asked Frank.

“I’ve almost got one hand loose. I’ll soon have it out, and then I’m going to take off this bandage. There’s no use of us staying here like a lot of chickens tied up, when we can just as well get away.”

“That’s the trouble – we can’t get away,” came from Frank. “I’ve been trying for the last ten minutes to loosen these cords, but I can’t slip a single knot. They knew how to tie ’em all right.”

“You just watch me,” called Fenn, who was squirming about on a bed of leaves.

“Watch you – yes, with our eyes bandaged,” said Ned, sarcastically. “That’s a hot one.”

“Patience, noble knight,” mocked the stout lad, “and I’ll soon release ye.”

“Stumpy is so fat that they didn’t have rope enough to tie him,” remarked Bart. “That’s the reason he thinks he can get loose.”

“I don’t think it, I know it!” cried Fenn in triumph a few seconds afterward. “I’ve got both hands out, and now here comes off my bandage.”

A moment later Fenn uttered a cry.

“What’s the matter?” asked Bart, making an unsuccessful attempt to get rid of the ropes binding his arms and legs.

“Why we’re in Oak Swamp, or, right on the edge of it,” replied Fenn. “They brought us farther than I thought they did. But we’ll fool ’em all right. We’ll get loose, skip out, and when they come back they won’t find us. Wait until I get these ropes off my legs, and I’ll help you fellows.”

Fenn was as good as his word. A few seconds later he was free from his bonds, and, in turn, he released Bart, Frank and Ned. They all looked around in some surprise, for they had no idea that they had been brought so far from home. The wagon had traveled faster than they had suspected.

“Oak Swamp,” mused Bart. “It’s a good thing it’s coming on winter instead of summer, or we’d be eaten up with mosquitoes. Well, let’s get out of here. I don’t like the place.”

Indeed it was gloomy and dismal enough at any time, but now, on a late fall evening, with darkness fast approaching, it was anything but an inviting place. The swamp derived its name from a number of scrub oak trees that grew in it. During the summer it was a treacherous place to visit, for there were deep muck holes scattered through it, and more than one cow, and several horses, had broken out of the pastures, and wandered into the wet place, only to sink down to their deaths. It was said that several years before a man had endeavored to cross the swamp, had been caught in a bog hole, and sucked down into its depths, his body never having been recovered.

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